


373°

by Acai



Series: the boiling point [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Connor Deserves Happiness, Crying, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fear, Fluff, Found Family, Human AU, Human Connor, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, Kid Connor, Kidfic, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Trauma, Violence, Young Connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai/pseuds/Acai
Summary: When Hank finds a ten-year-old boy locked in a room at a homicide, he agrees to take him in for the night. One night turns into two, and two nights into three, until Hank somehow finds himself with a son.





	1. Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sharcade and Sunlightcatcher for reviewing and editing this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Updates will come every two or three days for this one. As of now, the plan is five chapters for three stories, equaling a total of fifteen chapters. 
> 
>  
> 
> My Tumblr: 12am  
> My Art Blog: JaysPaints  
> Twitter: Safforias

It started the same way that everything else did: hungover on a Tuesday morning and grumbling about the sunlight. It poured in through the windows and made Hank squint as he fumbled for his pinging cell phone, and he was beginning to wish he had invested in better curtains. 

It started normally. It had been normal for Hank to wake up to Fowler calling him into work early to investigate a crime scene, so he’d grumbled and gone on his way the same way that he always did.

The body, already decaying with time, had been gross, but not unusual. The kitchen had been littered with broken glass, and the entire home reeked. The fridge had been empty, and it had been clear to Hank that nobody had been living there in a long time.

So why the body now? Why the homicide, in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere?

“Might have been a drug deal,” Gavin noted from next to Hank, tucking his thumbs into his pockets and shrugging. “No better place than an abandoned house. Angry buyer, you think?”

“Doubt it.” Hank gave the room another long once-over, eyes catching on a duffle bag stuffed into the corner. “He packed a bag.” 

“Probably full of red ice,” Gavin had already moved on to rummaging through the bookshelf.

 Hank crouched by it, hesitating before unzipping the duffle.

“Clothes,” he called, pulling out sweaters and jeans. They were large, no doubt for the man who had been shot. He kept digging through, moving the stacks of clothes from the bag and onto the floor. Gavin had joined him on the ground, grunting as his knees popped. Hank didn’t snicker, if only because it would have made him a hypocrite.

Gavin rummaged through with less care, shoving the folded clothes and towels aside. “There,” he said, glancing back at Hank before drawing out a Ziploc bag of crushed red ice. “Just a cover-up. He was here to sell drugs, ripped a guy off, and got shot.”

“Then why the kids’ clothes?” Hank pulled out one of the smaller t-shirts, letting it roll open to reveal a graphic of a shark. “There’s shit for a kid in here. Where’s the kid?”

“Kidnapping’s not our department,” Gavin dropped a yellow evidence marker next to the duffle. “We got what we need.”

Hank spared a moment to cast a glare in the other man’s direction, pulling out the rest of the child’s clothes from the bag. Two toothbrushes, a faded wallet, a picture, and a box of crayons sat on the bottom. The wallet’s pockets were empty, aside from one stuffed with twenty-dollar bills.

“No I.D.,” Hank handed the wallet to Gavin, who looked too smug for his own good. Hank moved on to the picture, watching Gavin open the crayon box in his peripheral.

He would die before he admitted it, but he was starting to think that Gavin was right about the case being a messy drug deal. Who else would bring a kid to a creepy old house like this with no I.D. and no car? Still, he wasn’t going to inflate Gavin’s already dangerously large ego by admitting that to him.

Not to mention, he was sure that there was something else going on here. Sure, a drug deal seemed likely. In fact, Hank was confident that the red ice had played a role in all of this. But—there must have been something bigger than that. It made sense, but it didn’t solve the whole puzzle. There was something else going on here.

The picture was of the dead man, looking considerably less gray and dead, and a boy who must have been his son. They shared the same curly brown hair and deep brown eyes, and the man was hoisting the boy up on his shoulders. The boy, dressed in a blue t-shirt with a fish on it, was grinning and holding ten fingers up to the camera. A cat slept on the windowsill in the background. Hank turned the photograph over, eyes scanning the scrawled writing on the back, written with pen and nearly rubbed away. The man had looked at this photo often. 

 _Connor’s tenth birthday—August 2038._  

“This is a recent photo. The kid’s ten, named Connor.”

Gavin was standing up and brushing off his pants, already pulling out his phone to call Fowler in. “Great,” he replied, distracted. 

Hank turned back to the stack of child’s clothes, thumbing through the shirts until he found the one he was looking for—blue, with a graphic of a fish on it. Could the kid have been here when the man got killed?

“He might be close by,” Hank insisted. “Might’ve run off into the woods or something.” 

“Not our department,” Gavin repeated. “I’ll let Fowler know, he’ll send someone out to look.” 

Hank rolled his eyes, returning the clothes to the duffle bag and standing again. His eyes roamed the man again, mouth twitching down into a frown. In the man’s shirt pocket, something glinted as the sun crept up further into the sky. Hank reached for it, pulling out a metal key.

“Looks old. No locks like that anymore,” Gavin mused, before turning away as Fowler answered the call.

The key _was_ old. Not only were keys as a whole outdated these days, but this key had to have been a couple centuries old, at least. It was bulky, and made of heavy metal. It was the kind of key to have belonged to an old creaky house like this. 

Hank set it on the ground by the corpse, placing an evidence marker next to it.

“We done here yet?” He asked, trying not to grunt with the effort of standing up again. Gavin tilted his head toward the door, already on his way out. Hank followed suite, fighting back the nagging feeling that they had forgotten something important. As his hand reached for the doorknob, a clattering from above his head stopped him in his tracks. Gavin, mouth open in a half-finished sentence, raised his eyebrows at Hank.

“Who checked upstairs?” Hank demanded, turning on his heel. “How the hell do you miss a suspect in a house this small?”

“Ben checked,” Gavin held up his free hand in surrender. “Said nothin’ was up there.” 

Hank’s feet pounded up the old wooden staircase and down the hall, opening each door in turn as he passed. Each room was empty, devoid of any furniture, windows, or doors. When there was only one room left to check, Hank’s fingers twisted the knob only to find it locked.

“Shit,” he swore, gripping it as tightly as he could. Turning to the stairway, he yelled, “bring me the fucking key!” 

He twisted again, harder this time, hoping that the knob would only be stuck. From inside the room, he could hear a frantic scrambling. 

At the sound of Gavin’s footsteps, he extended his hand impatiently, shifting back and forth as he shoved the key into the hole with what could probably be called excessive force. The key clicked, and Hank threw the door open hard enough for it to bang against the wall.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Stop,” he hissed, arm thrusting out to prevent Gavin from entering the room.

 In the corner, a kid had twisted himself into a ball, shaking hard as he cried, eyes dark with fear. 

 _“Shit,”_ he heard Gavin mutter, retreating further into the hall.

 Hank held up both of his hands for the kid to see, crouching down without moving any closer.

 “Connor, right?” Hank said. “Hi. We’re gonna help you.” The kid heaved out a sob, fingernails scratching at the wooden floorboards. When Hank shifted to come closer, he flinched away hard enough to smack his head against the wall, nails moving from the wood to his own arms. 

“Shit, hey, don’t do that,” Hank moved back, sitting down with his legs crossed. “It’s alright, kid. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

The kid—Connor—pressed his eyes closed, wrapping his arms around himself as he continued to sob silently.

“You came here with your dad, right? You were staying here with him?” He could hear Gavin getting back on the phone and moving back downstairs, and felt relief flood him as the boy’s eyes peeled open again hesitantly, taking in a shaky breath as he continued to rock in place.

 “You just turned ten. Gettin’ pretty old now, huh? Fifth grade’s a cool gig.” When that didn’t get a reaction, Hank tried again, racking his brain for anything he could. _Oh, right._

“You ever heard of Whitemargin Stargazer fish? Those lil’ fuckers—uh, guys—look like sand. They blend in and wait for smaller fish to swim by.” Connor’s eyes had roamed back over to Hank’s direction, tiny body still shaking with the force of his crying. “They live by the Komodo Islands. In the reefs. There’s Komodo dragons nearby, of course. And sea turtles. You know how long a sea turtle can live?”

“An average of eighty years in the wild.”

Hank jolted at the raspy answer, not having been expecting the kid to say anything back. The kid was still peering up at him with big, scared eyes, but his crying had eased off to sniffles and shaking. Hank played off his surprise, continuing. He listed off some more sea turtle facts, suddenly glad that he’d lost his remote last week and had been subjected to hours of sea life documentaries. It seemed to be the only thing getting through to the kid.

 As he heard more voices downstairs, he saw the way that Connor stiffened.

“It’s fine, kid. Just the police. They’re here to help you out.”

Connor’s arms wrapped around himself in a silent hug, looking doubtful as his trembling started up again.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to,” Hank told him, hoping he’d be able to keep his word. “Do you want to get out of here?” A single, jerky nod. “I need you to trust me, then. Can you do that?” Another nod, contradicted by a loud sob. Hank stood slowly, making sure to keep each of his movements obvious and non-threatening.

“Name’s Hank. I’m a detective,” he told the kid, offering a hand as slowly as he could. Connor watched him for a stretch of time, then raised both of his arms. Hank blinked. Well, that would make his job easier. “Can I pick you up?” He asked. A nod, this time as Connor squeezed his eyes shut once again.

Hank kept his moves slow as he leaned down to pull the kid up, feeling Connor’s hands knot into his jacket as he rested the kid’s head against his shoulder. Now he had a new problem, though, because the kid’s dad’s decaying corpse was laying by the front door. 

“I’m gonna take my jacket off for you,” Hank said, peeling off the side where the kid wasn’t. “It’s cold out.”

 He shrugged off the coat as gently as he could, and was relieved when Connor’s only reaction was to burrow back into the dress shirt he had on underneath, pressing his face into Hank’s neck. Wordlessly, Hank covered the kid with his jacket, checking to be sure he wouldn’t be able to see anything as they passed. Then he made his way out of the room, giving it a quick once-over before leaving.

 He crept down the stairs, not wanting to jostle the kid, but hurried through the front room and out the front door, relieved when they kid didn’t even stir, still covered by the jacket. When the coast was clear, he tugged the coat away from Connor’s head, but paused when he heard the boy’s whined protest. He re-covered the trembling kid as Gavin approached, casting a wary glance at the kid.

“What are you gonna do with that?”

“Take him back to the office, for now,” Hank replied, not leaving any room for discussion. “And figure out what comes next from there.”

Gavin shrugged, clearly not caring as long as the process didn’t involve him.

Hank resisted the urge to flip him off as he headed to his car, getting in and gathering the kid up again to slide him into the passenger side. He bucked him in, watching the way that his eyes drooped as the heater kicked on.

He would be asleep in no time.

____________________

At 8:43 A.M. that morning, Hank carried a sleeping child into Fowler’s office with a noisy, “the hell do I do now?”

 At 9:02 A.M., he emerged from Fowler’s office without any answers. 

By 10:56 A.M., he found himself coming to a reluctant agreement to bring the kid home for the night— _“just one night”—_ until they could contact CPS.

By noon, the kid was asleep on his couch.

By half past noon, the kid was awake, curling in on himself and going back to his chronic trembling. When he had refused to respond to anything that Hank had said, he’d given up and gone to finish work reports at the kitchen table. Connor hadn’t moved for the next two hours, staring at the walls with wide, bloodshot eyes.

When he did move, it was to jerk back as Hank’s dog lumbered into the room. Connor had gaped at Sumo, mouth hanging open and hands shaking. Hank pushed back his chair and stood, ready to shut Sumo in the bedroom to avoid freaking the kid out any more, when Connor reached out to place a hand on Sumo’s head.

With his mouth still hanging open, Connor turned to stare in Hank’s direction.

“That’s Sumo,” Hank said. “He’s big, but he’s a softie.”

Connor let out a breath of air, turning back to the dog. His hand didn’t move, and Hank wondered if he’d ever even seen a dog before, the way that he was acting.

Hank moved closer, stroking the fur on Sumo’s back and hoping it would set an example. Sure enough, Connor copied the motion, dragging his hand gently along the dog’s head. Sumo’s tongue lolled out and his tail filled the room with audible thumping as it hit the couch again and again.

The man—Connor’s father—had been dead for at least three days. If Connor had been locked in that room the whole time, he must have been hungry and thirsty by now. Hank stood, grabbing the remote off of the end table to switch the TV on to another boring nature documentary. If Connor liked animal facts so much, that would probably keep him occupied long enough for Hank to get him something to eat.

In the kitchen, Hank found himself following a routine that he hadn’t followed in three years. First the bread from the cupboards, then the jelly from the fridge. A knife and a plate, then the peanut butter. Take two slices from right in the middle, never the ends, and place them on the plate. Jelly on one side, peanut butter on the other, place them together and cut the sandwich in half. Knife in the sink, glass from the cupboards, milk from the fridge. Grab the plate and—

And bring it to the boy in the living room who was definitely not Cole.

Right.

In the living room, Connor had wrapped the blanket around himself and was laying down with Sumo sprawled across his stomach, eyes glued to the TV. He jumped when Hank set the plate and glass down on the table in front of him, but otherwise only eyeballed the sandwich warily.

 “Sumo, up,” Hank squinted at his dog, who just huffed out a big enough breath to ruffle Connor’s curls, but obeyed. “Eat,” he said, to Connor this time.

 Connor sat up slowly, eyes flicking from Hank to the sandwich and back again. Hank got the hint, lifting his hands in surrender and returning to the kitchen table. He could still keep an eye on the kid from here, but it wouldn’t be as obvious.

 Connor spent the next hour making slow progress on his lunch, picking through it as carefully as he could. He ate with slow caution, like he didn’t entirely trust the sandwich in front of him. Or maybe he was just picky, and didn’t like a classic PB&J. He didn’t comment on it, though, the same way that he hadn’t commented on anything since he’d shared his sea turtle fact back in the room.

Was it the trauma that made him quiet? Was that just his personality?

Hank found himself crossing his fingers that there would be more information on the kid by the time that they found a resolution to this case. Clearly the kid wasn’t going to say anything himself, but Hank knew they could only help so much without information. What had traumatized the kid in the first place? Had he heard his father’s death? Was there something more that had happened? Had he gotten along with his father, or had that photo just been a trick?

Cases rarely made sense right away, but Hank found himself wishing that this one would. He couldn’t help the kid until he had the facts, but he couldn’t have the facts until he helped the kid, which left him rummaging through all the notes he could get his hand on, trying to piece anything at all together. If they found the killer, would they get any information from him? Or were they just stuck at a dead end?

Tomorrow, the kid would get sent off to someone who actually knew what they were doing. For now, though, Hank was stuck here, doing paperwork and pretending like he didn’t see the kid slipping bites of food to his dog.

 When Connor had finished his lunch, he mimicked Hank’s motion from earlier, patting his lap to call Sumo back.

 He raised a hand, then, but rather than reaching to stroke the dog’s fur again, his fingers formed in a series of different gestures that made Hank’s eyebrows pull together. He was fingerspelling? Hank had never learned sign language himself, but Cole had learned enough of it at school for him to be able to figure out what Connor was spelling out.

 

G-O-O-D D-O-G S-U-M-O

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying this and want to read more, let me know what you thought by leaving a comment!  
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> If you want to talk more about this AU, or have a request for another story, send me a message through one of the medias below:  
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> And one more reminder to subscribe to the ENTIRE SERIES to follow this fic. 373 is split into three parts, with various one-shots from other POVs, and you might miss story updates if you only subscribe to this fic. Please subscribe to ‘The Boiling Point’ instead to receive updates for the entire story. 
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> Tumblr: 12am  
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	2. Sublimating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor’s first night in Hank’s home is a rocky beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and mild descriptions of wounds. 
> 
> This chapter is currently unrevised. 
> 
> My Tumblr: 12am  
> My Art Blog: JaysPaints  
> Twitter: Safforias

Hank woke up to screaming. 

That in and of itself wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes he would find himself awake at the asscrack of dawn, jolting up to his own screaming. He didn’t dream often, but when he did, it was always Cole. In the good dreams, Hank’s son would play with Sumo in the backyard, or watercolor at the kitchen table, or do the monkey bars for the first time. Sometimes he dreamed of Cole turning eight. 

In the nightmares, Cole was always bleeding. The nightmares never made sense, and he never relived the night that had caused all of this, but sometimes twisted versions of the night would sneak into his dreams. Sometimes Cole bled out before the ambulance even arrived. Sometimes they weren’t in the car at all, and Hank would arrive at a crime scene to find his son’s body marked with yellow evidence markers. Sometimes Cole woke up, screaming in pain, and Hank would have to watch him suffer for hours—but he never lived. 

Once, he dreamed of being in the hospital room again. But instead of his son there, hooked up to an abundance of machinery, the bed was empty. The room had been quiet, and the window had been open. It had been nice, with the breeze wafting in and billowing the curtains, and Hank had only sat there in the quiet. His phone had chimed, and when he’d glanced down to check it, there had only been one message waiting. 

**Cole:** where are you? 

He hadn’t been sad in his dream. Only confused. But when he’d woken up, he’d been crying, and his room had been dark and hot. 

His room was dark and hot now, too, as he jolted awake to the sound of the screaming. On instinct, he clapped his hands over his mouth, scared that he’d wake the kid. He sat for a moment, feeling his elevated heart rate slowly falling back to its normal rate. Whatever he’d dreamed, he couldn’t remember it. 

The screaming continued. He hadn’t dreamed at all. 

Throwing his covers to the side, Hank scrambled out of bed and ran for the living room so quickly that he almost fell sideways as he sprinted around the corner. 

On the couch, Connor was flailing, wide awake and terrified. He’d tangled himself in his blankets, and was making a mad struggle for freedom. His eyes flew to where Hank stood, and he curled in on himself, still struggling. 

“Hell,” Hank muttered, forcing himself to calm down. Louder, he said, “you’re going to make it worse if you keep struggling.” 

He should have known that wouldn’t help. Logic didn’t tend to work on kids his age. Instead, he approached as slowly as he could. The closer he got, the harder Connor struggled, and he wished that just keeping a distance was an option. If he stayed back, though, Connor would only stay tangled in all of the bedding. So he inched forward, keeping his palms open where Connor could see them until he was close enough to start untangling the sheets.

The second he made contact, Connor burst into tears, choking out a messy mantra of  _ “please don’t, please, please, please,”  _ that made Hank’s heart constrict. 

When he’d pulled all the blankets away, he dropped them to the floor and held his hands up again, backing away from the couch. Connor shot up the second that he was free. He threw himself over the armrest of the couch, scrambling to press his back to the wall. 

Hank could see Sumo nosing his way out of his bedroom, and swallowed down a curse. If Connor was this scared already, a dog Sumo’s size wasn’t going to help. 

The dog ambled into the living room, trotting right past Hank’s hands as he fumbled to grab the dog’s collar. He walked right up to Connor, nosing the kid’s shirt. Though Hank expected the screaming to start back up again, Connor only cried harder and sank down to the ground. With a grand  _ thump,  _ Sumo dropped down to join him. Connor’s hands buried into Sumo’s fur without any hesitation, and soon the boy’s face followed, pressing into the dog’s side. 

Hank had always teased Cole about getting snot in the dog’s fur. With Connor, he stayed silent. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything past the great lump in his throat, anyway. 

He let himself fall down onto the couch, instead, propping his feet up onto the coffee table and pretending to busy himself with a book that sat in front of him. He kept his eyes glued where they were, only listening as Connor’s crying died down into sniffling. He pretended that he couldn’t see the kid peering up at him through his peripheral vision. Hank only kept reading. It took nearly sixty pages for Connor to stand up, and when he did, he kept his tiny fingers wrapped around Sumo’s collar. With any other dog, Hank would have worried about the kid’s safety. But Sumo had put up with worse from another little boy, and he had always loved kids, so Hank only kept a careful eye out. 

Using Hank’s dog as security, Connor inched closer to the couch again. He made his way closer in a fashion that wasn’t too unlike that of a wild animal, inching little by little and hunkering down behind the dog in between his little journeys. 

Despite his behavior, nothing about Connor was animalistic. His movements were all calculated, and from the moment that Hank had met him, the kid had been good at evaluating situations and selecting the best course of action in a matter of seconds. The kid was smart. Really smart. He was just...scared. 

When Hank risked glancing back down at Connor, the boy didn’t flinch away like before. Instead, he stared right back, eyes squinted like he was trying to stare the older man down. The hand that wasn’t clutching Sumo’s called had balled itself into a fist, and Hank tried to swallow back a grin as he held both his hands up in surrender. 

“You alright?” Hank asked, deciding against talking to him like he was too young for such a direct question. He figured he’d probably get punched if he did. “Gave me a little scare, there.” 

“The blankets…” Connor muttered, face turning bright red as he turned to glare at the wall. Tremors still ran through his body. 

“I know,” Hank tried to placate him, putting the book down. Connor shrunk back into himself, pressing himself into Sumo’s side. Hank’s hands went back up, and Connor’s piercing eyes returned to watching him like he was certain Hank was going to pull a knife out if he looked away too long. 

Connor’s teeth were chewing on his bottom lip, and Hank didn’t miss the dark bags under his eyes. The kid opened his mouth again, but he pressed his lips together without saying anything. If possible, he shrank down even more. 

“Do that thing you did earlier,” Hank prompted. “The spelling, with your fingers.” 

Connor’s gaze jolted back, but he worked quickly to morph his surprise back into his usual flat expression. His whole body had gone back to trembling, but he raised his free hand anyway. Sumo’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth, and a fat drop of drool splashed onto Hank’s rug. 

The wet splash was enough to distract Connor, whose eyes darted down to look at the slobbery patch next to his feet. 

And, hell, if Hank really had to pick a single moment to foreshadow the choice that he was going to make in the morning, it would be the one where a quick giggle spilled from the young boy’s lips. 

Hank was sure that his expression matched Connor’s wide-eyed, open mouthed stare as he yanked his head back to stare at Hank. He looked ready for reprimand, and fuck if he didn’t look on the verge of tears. 

Hank only rolled his eyes, leaning back into the crease that he’d molded into the couch over time. “He does that all the time. He’s a drooly dog.” 

Connor’s form relaxed, even if only a little, and Hank made a mental note that animals seemed to be able to diffuse any tense situation with this kid. 

Unsure of what to do next, Hank began to straighten the blankets out onto the couch. He doubted the kid would sleep again, but it gave his fingers something to do. Connor watched him with the same beady gaze as before, looking wary despite his clear exhaustion. But when Sumo decided he’d had enough of standing up and dropped back onto the ground, he yanked Connor down with him, and the kid tumbled down. 

His head popped back up like a mole, still watching Hank like his life depended on it, but he didn’t make any move to stand back up again. Hank rolled with it, like he’d tried to roll with everything else. He turned his attention back to the book and fell back on his  _ I’m not watching you  _ tactic. 

By the time that he glanced back down, Connor’s head was lolled onto Sumo’s stomach, and he was drooling on the big dog’s soft fur. 

_______ 

The next time that Hank woke up, it was to his alarm clock beeping. Three hours of sleep wasn’t a whole lot to go off of, but it was better than nothing. This would all be over in a couple of hours, anyway. He’d bring the kid into work, pawn him off on Fowler, and he’d go back to his own life. The kid would probably see a counselor or some shit, and they’d put him into a better equipped foster home. Then they could all move on from whatever  _ this  _ was. 

That didn’t bring Hank the relief that he wished it would have. 

As much as Hank wanted to push his face back into his pillows and fall asleep again, the clattering coming from down the hall was telling him that wasn’t in his best interest. He dragged himself up, groaning the entire way like a man much older than himself. 

Connor wasn’t on the couch, nor was he on the floor where Hank had left him. The lack of child in his living room may have worried him, if not for the rhythmic thudding of Sumo’s tail that came from the kitchen. Hank rubbed at his eyes as he continued on his goose chase, following the sound towards the sink. 

There, soaking wet and trembling, stood Connor. The boy was brandishing a fork like a weapon, back pressed against the counter where water was overflowing from the sink. 

It was too early for this. 

Hank fumbled for the sink’s knob to twist the water off. If he had to pay for water damage, he’d strangle the kid. 

“I have a fucking shower,” Hank said, which only seemed to agitate him even more. Connor’s fist clenched around his makeshift weapon. The room remained silent, except for the steady dripping of water streaming from his sink. 

Hank wasn’t proud of what happened next. 

Despite all of his years of working with investigations and interrogations, Hank forgot the most important rule of dealing with a wild card:  _ don’t turn your back.  _

As he turned to plunge his hand into the sink to uncork the plug, pain ricocheted through his other hand like a bullet bouncing off a wall. 

“God  _ damn it,” _ Hank hissed, reeling backwards and clutching at his hand. In his right hand, a fork was sticking out. “Did you  _ stab me?” _

Connor’s only reply was to turn tail and sprint in the other direction. 

“Fucking  _ hell.”  _ Hank gritted his teeth and yanked the fork out of place, throwing it into the garbage can without a second glance. His uninjured hand tore a fistful of paper towels off their roll. He blotted at the blood, forgetting to be angry in his bewilderment. How the hell was he going to explain this one? 

Forgetting the kid temporarily in favor of not dripping blood onto his carpet, Hank took a break from babysitting to bandage his hand. Sumo followed, with his stupid tongue spilling out the side of his mouth. 

“Traitor,” Hank muttered. He dug through his mirror cabinet for the roll of bandages, using his teeth to tear a strip off once he found it. Sumo ignored him, sticking his nose to the ground and sniffing around as if he’d found a trail. He stopped when his nose bumped into the side of the bathtub. Then, with all the grace that a dog his size and age could muster, he hauled himself over the edge and disappeared behind the shower curtain. Hank was coming dangerously close to skipping work and calling CPS right to his door to get the kid. 

Heaving a sigh, he pulled back the shower curtain. In the tub with his arms wrapped around the dog, Connor stared back at him. 

“Get out of the tub,” Hank said. 

Connor jerked his head left and right.  _ No.  _

“Yes.” Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to go to work, Connor.” 

The boy’s eyes lingered on the bandages wrapped around Hank’s right hand. 

“Yeah, you see that? The hell you doin’, going around and stabbing people?  _ Christ.”  _ Connor said nothing. Hank was beginning to realize that getting the kid to talk was a real coin toss. If he didn’t want to say anything, he sure as hell wasn’t going to. Hank tried again. “Kid, if I was going to flip my shit, I would have done it when I had a fork in my hand. You’re not in trouble, just get out of my fucking bathtub so I can go to work.”

Would Hank normally brush a stabbing under the rug? No. Was he going to today, because he was tired as hell and didn’t want to do this right now? Yes. 

Still, Connor didn’t move. 

“That’s not a request. That’s an order, Connor.” 

Hank dropped the shower curtain and flipped the bathroom light off. This wasn’t his job. His job was to search dead bodies and grimy houses while drinking gritty staff room coffee. If watching kids had been his job, the universe wouldn’t have taken that from him three years ago. Hank—

Hank was not cut out for taking care of kids. If he were, his dog wouldn’t cry outside of a baby blue door twice a week, like he thought that if he cried enough the door would open and another little boy would step out to play with him before school. If he  _ were, _ he wouldn’t have to keep all the pictures on his desk at work face down. If he were, he’d have more than old beer and sandwiches in his kitchen. 

But he wasn’t, so he shucked off his old t-shirt and shorts and changed into his work clothes. He wasn’t, so he made his shitty coffee in his shitty kitchen and pulled on his shoes at the kitchen table. He wasn’t, so when he saw Connor slinking to the front door and pulling his own shoes on, he didn’t say anything.

He was silent all the way to the car, and quieter still as he buckled himself in and waited for Connor to do the same.

And then he let his face drop against the steering wheel. He could feel the way that Connor jumped as Hank’s forehead pressed against the car horn in a continuous shrill of noise loud enough to wake the neighborhood. When he sat back up, Connor was staring at him with the same wide eyes as the night before. 

He pointed a finger at the boy, who shrunk back on instinct at the gesture. 

“No more stabbing,” Hank said, watching Connor’s big eyes blink in shock. “No stabbing, or hiding, or any other bullshit.” He paused, pressing his lips together and staring at the old wood of his garage door. Connor sniffed loudly next to him.

“You’re a good kid, Connor,” Hank said, which was clearly not what the boy had been expected to hear. “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re a good, smart kid, so that’s not an excuse for pulling things like that.” 

He waited, in case Connor decided that now was an ideal time to start talking again, but the silence went unbroken. 

________________

Connor’s brief rebellion seemed to have come to an end with his great bathtub escape. He was quiet for the rest of the car ride, and followed Hank obediently into the office come morning. When Hank told him to sit, he sat, and when Hank told him to read a book, he read. 

Any other kid would have been crawling out of his skin after an hour of waiting around doing nothing in a place like the DPD. Connor didn’t even spin in his chair. 

Hank worked, glancing up from time to time to check on the kid, but Connor seemed content enough to just sit and do as he was told. Had that been all it took? Had that morning’s incident only been a burst of anger, or fear, where Connor had only been trying to defend himself? 

The scared kid from that morning had been nothing like the calm one reading across from him right now. 

Hank quickly learned that the only instruction Connor would refuse to obey was  _ stay there.  _ When Hank stood to get coffee, Connor followed along right behind him. When Hank went to the printer, Connor gripped his coattail the entire way. When Hank was called into Fowler’s office an hour later, he had to placate the kid by dragging a chair right outside the door—the furthest away that Connor would agree to wait. 

When Hank walked in, he pretended not to see the way that Fowler was raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Your hand wasn’t like that yesterday,” Fowler noted dryly. 

Hank bit back a sharp comeback. “That kid’s got guts,” was what he decided on instead. 

“He’s violent?” 

“He’s scared, and he’s ten years old.” Hank lowered his voice, despite knowing that the glass didn’t allow much sound to permeate through. “He’s a good kid, he just has shit to work through.” 

Fowler hummed, sounding more amused than unimpressed. “That so?” 

Hank grunted. 

Fowler turned back to his terminal, business once more. “Right now, we don’t have any more leads on this case. Fill out what you can for now, and get your report to me by the end of the day.” 

Hank knew well enough how to tell when he was being dismissed. He stood, and felt his joints popping from a restless night as he did. As his hand reached for the doorknob, he stopped at the sound of Fowler clearing his throat from his desk. 

“One more thing,” he said, though the sound of his typing didn’t falter. “Get the kid ready to go. CPS will be here to collect him soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying this and want to read more, let me know what you thought by leaving a comment!  
>  
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> If you want to talk more about this AU, or have a request for another story, send me a message through one of the medias below:  
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	3. Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor solves crimes and takes a bath, while Hank is tired and old and accidentally starts to grow attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried updating this yesterday and fell asleep on the keyboard, so it’s a day late, but please forgive me because I tried. 
> 
> NOTE: I learned ASL from my community and deaf/HOH classmates, meaning that the ASL I know is less formal and updated than what is probably taught in official classes. Nothing should be unrecognizably different, however, so that shouldn’t be an issue. 
> 
> This chapter is currently unedited. 
> 
> My Tumblr: 12am  
> My Art Blog: JaysPaints  
> Twitter: Safforias

“No.” The word fell from Hank’s mouth before he’d even paused to consider the consequence of it. 

The typing from Fowler’s desk came to an abrupt stop. “No?” 

“The kid’s messed up,” Hank was going to have to bullshit his way through this one like his life depended on it. “Look, from what I saw last night, that kid needs a fuckton of stability and support, and he’s not gonna get that house hopping and living with six other kids. I think I’m making some progress, so I’m willing to keep him a while longer until they find somewhere more permanent to stick him. I think it’s better for everyone if we try and avoid fucking him up even more until we have to.” 

Fowler’s eyebrows drew further together, and it was clear that he couldn’t decide whether to believe the lie that he’d been fed or not. After a long stretch of seconds that threatened to make Hank start sweating, Fowler sat back in his chair and turned his gaze back to his computer. 

“I’ll let CPS know.” As Fowler’s fingers resumed their rapid typing, Hank took his opportunity to slip out of the office once again. The kid was sitting exactly where Hank had left him, hands folded neatly in his lap and back straight. He looked more like a pompous businessman than a ten-year-old kid. 

Hank tilted his head towards his desk, not stopping to wait for Connor to scramble up and follow. As the boy slid back into the empty desk, he folded his hands back together and stared blankly off at the clock behind Hank. Even if Connor wasn’t complaining about not having anything to do, Hank was sure this couldn’t be a whole lot of fun for the kid. Did Hank even having anything for him to mess with, though?

Thinking fast, Hank pulled out his phone and opened it to a reading app. He didn’t have games, but a stern kid like Connor must have liked reading enough to sit and at least tolerate it for a while. Hank slid the phone to Connor’s desk, causing him to glance up with a look of surprise. 

“Read, if you want. Look up a book or whatever if there’s one you like, I don’t care.” 

Connor didn’t say a word, still keen on keeping his silence. Hank tried to refocus on the work that sat on his terminal.

Why had he done that? He was hardly fit for keeping a kid. He didn’t know the first thing about kids—like Connor, at least. The logical part of his mind made him wonder how different he really could have been. Sure, Hank had never met a kid as… stabbey as Connor, but he figured he’d just overwhelmed him. Gotten too close too fast without thinking. While Hank had known he was just reaching to turn the tap off, Connor probably hadn’t. It very well could have just looked like Hank was reaching for the kid, and Connor had reacted as he saw fit. Kids were never stellar decision makers in the first place. And who could blame the kid, after what he’d been through?

So Hank wasn’t mad about the stabbing. But he was confused by himself. What had prompted him to agree to host the kid for even longer? Just yesterday, Hank had been ready to put the kid in the shed for the night. Now he wanted him to stay longer? 

When Fowler had mentioned CPS coming for Connor, Hank had felt a tug of desperation. What had it been for? Why had he felt it? Did he actually want the kid to stick around, or—or had he just wanted  _ Cole  _ to stick around? 

No. 

Connor and Cole had similarities, like their ages and quiet personalities and little quirks, but they were also entirely different. Cole liked people, and Connor didn’t. Cole hadn’t been interested in reading, but Connor was pouring through book after book like it was the first rain after a drought. They weren’t the same kid. Did that mean that Hank wanted that kid to stay longer?  _ Why? _

He watched Connor, now immersed in a book about tree frogs. For the first time, his back wasn’t stock straight and his shoulders weren’t rigid. He was slouching, elbows resting on the desk while one finger flicked to the next page. His blinking was getting longer. Kids were always easy to read—and this kid was tired.

Hank shook his head and turned back to the terminal. There were still cases to finish before he’d be able to go home.

A grand majority of the cases were old, had dead ends, or had little to no evidence to support them. Hank picked one at random, figuring his chances of finding a good one were little to none.

Ah. A ‘little to no evidence’ case. In the file sat the basics. A family killed several nights ago in their home, signs of a break-in, and no fingerprints or cameras. The only suspect was the mother’s husband, who’d flown North to visit his brother five days before, and hadn’t arrived home for several days after. The only evidence was photos from the break-in and the man’s flight records and rental car miles. There was a file of information on the rental car, given to him by another detective on the case. She’d come to a dead end with it, but said it could help eventually. 

The contents? Miles that proved nothing, and close-ups of bugs on the windshields, dirt on the tires, and a single Coke can in the cup holder. 

“The hell am I supposed to do with photos of bugs?” Hank muttered. 

A tiny hand snuck across the two desks to pull a photo closer to the owner.

“Hey—!” Hank slapped a hand down over the photo. He was used to that desk being empty, and had somehow forgotten about its troublesome occupant. “You can’t see that.” 

Connor stared back at him with a blank expression for a moment longer, then tugged the photo back out of Hank’s hand. Hank rolled his eyes. The photo wasn’t going to reveal anything confidential without the rest of the case information. Hank figured he’d let the kid mess with it while Hank worked.

Connor was watching the bugs like they were going to come to life and bite at him. His eyes flicked back up to watch Hank’s pen scrawling across his page. When the pen paused, his eyes shot up to make contact with Hank’s. He pointed at the cup of pens on Hank’s desk. Hank raised an eyebrow. Connor only hesitated for a moment, before shifting his pointing finger to the side, while his thumb and middle finger made contact in the middle. His fingers changed to make an L next. Connor was fingerspelling. 

_ P-L-E-A-S-E _

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank leaned to grab a pencil, checking to make sure it had an eraser, and handed it to the kid with a sheet of paper that he tore out of his notebook. 

Connor got to work right away, gripping the pencil harder than was probably necessary. He wrote like he wasn’t entirely used to it, but had been at one point. He made his progress slowly but steadily, pencil inching across the top line with all the care in the world. 

It was kind of cute, seeing Connor mimic the detective work that he saw going on around him, but Hank had real work to do right now. 

Hank researched, zoomed in on photos, and analyzed until the tiny hand appeared back on his desk, this time pushing the paper and photo in Hank’s direction. When Hank looked up, Connor had already gone back to reading on Hank’s phone. 

He swallowed back a smile, picking up the notebook paper to read over it. He’d expected some made up analysis, or maybe a fact he’d Googled. Instead, Hank stared down at a list of neatly printed clues. A doodle or two of the bugs decorated the margins. 

_ -Lots of bugs. Probably the highway _

_ -No butterflies. Lots of moths. Drove at night  _

_ -Paper wasp is only found in West, car drove in West  _

_ -Three northern bugs too. Drove North to West  _

There was a drawing of a moth on the bottom of the page that Hank blinked down at.

Hank had known that the kid was full of weird animal facts, but he hadn’t assumed that quirk extended to bugs, too. And, really, Hank liked music, but he couldn’t tell you these kinds of facts about it. Did the kid just have a whole dictionary stuffed up in his head? 

But—

This was evidence. He was sure Connor was just listing fun facts as he saw fit, but these fun facts were real, hard evidence. Bugs from the North and the West? Driving at night, and probably on the highway? 

The flight could have easily been an alibi. The rental car was to drive home and back. Stapling Connor’s list to his own note sheet, Hank pushed back his chair and stood up to go and track down the coworker who had given him the file in the first place. He paused at the last moment, turning back to the desks.

“Connor—,” Hank stopped. In the desk across from his own, Connor had fallen asleep with his head buried in his arms.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Hank didn’t wake the kid up when they got home. He walked around to the passenger side, scooping Connor up as gently as he could. He was an average size for his age group, but Hank had forgotten just how little kids were. Connor’s whole fist was the size of three of Hank’s fingers, and he swallowed hard when he felt tiny hands subconsciously twining into the fabric of his shirt.

This was only temporary. Just a couple of days until a more permanent solution came around. 

Inside the house, Hank settled the kid down on the couch. He stuffed a pillow under Connor’s head before it could roll and leave him with a neck cramp when he woke, placing a thin sheet over him in hopes of not repeating the blanket incident from the night before. 

He crept into the bathroom next, tidying up his morning’s mess before pulling the shower curtain away. He found the drain plug under his sink and turned the water on. Falling back into old habits, he waited until the water had warmed before plugging the bath. 

And while Hank wasn’t a hoarder, he’d developed a tendency to cling onto anything that reminded him of his son. It wasn’t hard to find bubbles in the mess of everything else that he’d shoved under the sink at one point or another. He figured Connor would be fine using his shampoo and soap for now. 

When the bath had filled and the tap had been turned off, Hank went to wake Connor. 

The kid stirred awake slowly, rubbing at his eyes before he’d even opened them. When he did, he looked startled for a split second before his eyes came to rest on Hank and he relaxed. He lifted his arms up, wanting to be carried. Hank rolled his eyes, but picked him up regardless and carried him towards the bath.

When he set Connor on his feet, the kid took another minute to blink himself awake before staring at the tub of water. He shot Hank a suspicious glare, working his tongue in his mouth.

“Are you staying?” He mumbled, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

Hank shrugged. “Not unless you really want me to.”

“No,” Connor replied, quickly enough that it was clear he’d been worried. He looked away after that, face turning red as his hands moved to fold in front of him. “No, thank you.” 

“Aye, aye,” Hank replied, already turning the doorknob to leave. He paused, glancing back at Connor’s utterly lost expression. With a sigh, he pointed to the cluster of soaps on the edge of the tub. “You like reading? Read the backs of all those and do what they say.” 

Connor’s shoulders relaxed at that, and Hank couldn’t help but note how strange it was for a kid to be relieved to be told to read. Then again, maybe he was just glad that he had a clear seat of instructions to follow.

Hank left him to his own devices, going and sitting on the couch. It was still covered in blankets and pillows, but he didn’t care enough to move any of it. Connor seemed like the kind of kid to dislike his things being moved, anyway.

It wasn’t until he’d turned on the television that he realized Connor didn’t have any clothes to change into after he’d finished washing up. It wasn’t like he could leave to go pick something up now. There was nobody else here to watch Connor while he was gone, and everywhere was probably closed this late at night. 

But—

No.

_ But— _

Connor only needed pajamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow, right? Then he could take an hour or two off work and go with the kid to pick some clothes out? And Hank didn’t have a shortage of clothes. Sure, the ones he had were intended for someone three years younger, but Connor was tiny for his age, and the baggier sweaters and pants would fit.

Hank hadn’t turned that doorknob in years. 

Right after the accident, when everything had been fresh and nothing had felt real yet, Hank would go in and sink down against the wall and scream and cry like it would bring Cole back if he protested loudly enough. But he’d never touched anything. He was certain that Cole’s bed was still unmade, despite being reminded to make it that morning. There was probably toys out on the floor, too, and maybe a shirt or two. His calendar would still be marked with all of the long-since-passed events that he would never go to. 

Hank never had a good enough reason to go in there.

But now his two options were to swallow back his nausea and fetch a pair of pajamas a, or make Connor change back into the dirty clothes that he’d been brought here in. 

So Hank stood up, squeezed his eyes shut, and walked until his hand landed on the doorknob at the end of the hall. The door was painted green, and a name plate was nailed into the wood. Dark blue letters with zig-zagged bolts of thunder surrounding them read  _ Cole. _

He swallowed hard and fought down his heavy nauseous feeling as he twisted the doorknob and stepped in. He kept his eyes focused on the dresser, not letting his sight stray anywhere else in the room. It was stuffy and dusty. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to come and clean it a little later.

No. No, he wasn’t going to do that. He was just going to get the clothes and leave. 

He opened the middle drawer and dug straight to the bottom. All of the clothes on the top held too many memories to do anything with. On the bottom of the drawer were all of the clothes that Cole hadn’t liked the textures of. Anything that wasn’t polyester went straight to the bottom, Hank had quickly learned. That left plenty of cotton, fuzzy pajama pants that had never been worn before. 

In the drawer under that, Hank dug out a plain blue T-shirt that had been forgotten about fairly quickly. Blue had never been a favorite color of Cole’s to wear, but Connor seemed to like it. 

He only needed to rummage a little longer to find black sweatpants to go with the T-shirt and the top that went with the pajama pants, and then he left the room so quickly that he didn’t even pause to close the open drawer. The door creaked as Hank pulled it shut, and he took a long moment to lean against it with his eyes pressed shut once more. 

Taking in a long gulp of air, Hank turned to knock on the bathroom door. 

“Connor?” He called. “There’s pajamas out here for you whenever you’re done.”

That was one itty, bitty, teeny, tiny mountain done. That was more than enough for Hank, who sunk down into his couch like he’d just run a marathon.

Hank continued dealing with work reports, glancing up at the TV now and again while he worked. He heard the bathroom door creak open, and then slam shut almost immediately after, and took that as a hint that Connor was almost done.

Not long after, the bathroom door creaked open again, and soft footsteps padded into the living room. Hank waited for Connor to sit, only glancing up when he saw the kid lingering in the doorway. The clothes fit him well enough, even if he did need to roll up the sleeves. Connor clutched the clothes for tomorrow tightly enough that his hands were losing blood flow. 

Hank tilted his head towards a stack of books that sat on the coffee table. There was a mix of kids books and science in the pile, and Hank had needed to rummage through crate after crate of books in his basement to find exactly the mix that he had been looking for. Judging by the way that Connor had focused his gaze on the books like a hunter, he was hoping he’d guessed correctly what the kid would be interested in.

Hank stood up, hearing more than a couple bones cracking when he stretched. “Those are for you to read. We’ll get you some actual clothes and shit tomorrow before work.” He pointed to clock on the wall. “Go to bed by ten. Deal?” 

Connor nodded his head a couple of times, already lunging to grab the first book off of the stack.

_ D-E-A-L  _

Hank retreated back to his own bedroom, knowing he wouldn’t stay up until ten even if he tried. He was just going to have to extend a little trust to the kid this time around. He wasn’t too worried, anyway. Connor had yet to even try and step a toe out of line since that morning. If Hank was lucky, Connor had expelled all of his ten-year-old rebellion into the stabbing incident. More likely than that, though, Hank had probably just overwhelmed a kid who was already really scared. From what Hank had seen since then, Connor was a good kid. And a really smart one, too.

The only real question that Hank had stemmed from Connor’s random opposition towards speaking. Sometimes he’d speak, and others he’d refuse. It wasn’t a problem so far, since he’d evidently learned an alternative that Hank understood well enough, but it may come up as a problem in the future with someone else.

Hank would deal with that later—ideally when he knew more about Connor’s situation. With luck, though, that problem wouldn’t arise. 

For now, he was content to sleep off the stress of the day and cross his fingers that Connor would go to bed at a reasonable time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying this and want to read more, let me know what you thought by leaving a comment!  
>  
> 
> If you want to talk more about this AU, or have a request for another story, send me a message through one of the medias below:  
>    
> And one more reminder to subscribe to the ENTIRE SERIES to follow this fic. 373 is split into three parts, with various one-shots from other POVs, and you might miss story updates if you only subscribe to this fic. Please subscribe to ‘The Boiling Point’ instead to receive updates for the entire story. 
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Safforias


	4. Warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin causes problems, Connor goes to his first sleepover, and Hank comes to a startling conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter of this fic, and then it’s on to part two :) 
> 
> NOTE: I’ll be out of state for a week starting tomorrow morning. I doubt there will be WIFI, but hopefully I’ll be able to hotspot my laptop long enough to still be able to post. If I can, I’ll continue to update as usual. IF NOT then updates will resume next Wednesday. If you notice a still in the chapter updates, this HAS NOT been discontinued, only temporarily placed on pause. I’ll continue writing either way. 
> 
> Come talk to me about this fic if you’re enjoying it so far! 
> 
> Tumblr: 12am  
> Twitter: Safforias

By the time Hank dragged himself into the kitchen for a mug of coffee, Connor was asleep. He was sprawled across the couch with his arms and legs sticking out in every direction, and his mouth was open just enough for a stream of drool to puddle on his pillow. There was a book on the ground, right under Connor’s open fist, and Hank rolled his eyes at the thought of the kid falling asleep reading. 

“Me too, kid,” Hank grumbled, grabbing a mug from the counter and turning on the coffee machine. It beeped noisily as it turned on, and Hank couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t woken a certain someone up. 

Eventually, someone was going to have to ask Connor what happened to him at the abandoned house. Hank hadn’t been back on the case since the initial investigation, and had been putting off asking Fowler about it. What if it was something gruesome? What if Connor had been through worse than Hank feared? As long as he didn’t ask, he could keep pretending like Connor was just a stubborn kid. But once he knew the truth, Connor’s trauma would be a real thing. For whatever reason, Hank found himself wanting to postpone that for as long as possible. 

Somebody would ask eventually, though. It was clear that they hadn’t been able to solve the case yet, or Hank would have heard about it. CPS would have collected Connor for sure. No doubt, the team was putting off questioning Connor until it became necessary. Even with only two nights behind them, Connor had already made significant progress from the night that he’d been recovered from the house. Hank didn’t want to be the one to set him back by dragging his painful memories to light, but like hell he was going to let someone else do it. 

No. Whether Hank liked it or not, he was the only one that Connor trusted right now. Anybody else asking about something like that would only set the kid off again. He would ask, eventually. For the case. Just… not today. 

That still left the nagging question of where to go from here. 

Coffee filtered into his mug while Hank gazed over the couch at the kid. He looked less tired already. He’d been sleeping a lot, but Hank supposed that was hardly unexpected. His sleep schedule would even out eventually, after enough time. Hank hoped his eating habits would, too. Right now, the kid picked over food like he’d never seen it before in his life. 

Connor reacted to most things like he’d never seen them before, which was strange, because he seemed to know everything about everything. He wasn’t afraid of anything, either. A little confused as first, while he mapped things out, and then bold enough to start testing the waters. 

He’d been nervous about Sumo, at first. Now he’d practically stolen Hank’s dog from him, with the way that he slept underneath all one hundred and seventy pounds of dog. Hank had learned quickly that the trick to getting Connor to eat was to feed the dog at the same time. 

On the couch, Connor stirred. Hank grabbed his coffee and made his way to the couch, careful not to step on any of the books that littered the floor. He patted the kid’s shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Time to get up.” Hank set his coffee down on an end table next to a lamp. “I’ve gotta go to work.” 

Connor’s eyes peeled open, and he studied Hank with sleepy eyes. He always looked like he was analyzing something or somebody. He sat up, shaking Hank’s hand off his shoulder as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. 

Hank pointed to the stack of clothes on the coffee table. “Shower and change. We’ll leave at 7:15.” He paused, squinting at the kid. “You know how to read a clock, don’t you?” 

There was a pause between Hank’s question and Connor’s response as he blinked himself awake. Then he nodded slowly, clambering up and picking the clothes up off the table. 

Connor disappeared to get ready while Hank made breakfast, emerging twenty minutes later looking wet and still half asleep. Hank shoved a plate into his hands as he corralled the kid back into the bathroom, toweling off his hair and arms the best that he could. As he sent Connor off to go pack a couple of books for the day, Connor pointed towards Hank’s plate that sat waiting on the kitchen table.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Hank agreed, nudging the kid into the living room. He hurried to eat, if only to set a good example. When Connor zipped his backpack up, Hank discretely shoveled the rest of his plate into the garbage and set it in the sink. Connor gave him a suspicious look, but didn’t bother calling him out. Hank wondered if this caretaking thing was suddenly becoming a two-way arrangement. 

He hustled the kid out the door, only pausing to lock up behind him. Connor climbed into the passenger seat, fumbling with the seatbelt for a few seconds as he tried to buckle himself in. When he was all set, he pulled a book out of his backpack and opened it on his knees.

“What’s that?” Hank asked, making small talk on an instinct he thought he’d forgotten. 

“Book,” Connor mumbled. 

Hank gave him a flat look. “I see that, Sherlock. What’s the book about?” 

Connor took a long breath in, and Hank glanced over as he launched into his explanation. “Goblin sharks are deep-sea creatures that eat teleost fish, crustaceans, and cept—cephalopods,  and they’re really cool. They have been alive for 125 million years. I have been alive for ten.”

“Jeez,” Hank replied, certain that he’d never heard Connor say as many words as he just did. He blinked at the road in front of him. What kind of ten year old knew about cephalopods and teleost fish? “They sound pretty old.” 

Connor nodded, but did so with such intensity that his whole body dipped up and down in his eagerness. “They are. Really old and really cool.”

Hank couldn’t help letting out an amused puff of air. Connor wouldn’t say a damn thing to anyone if he didn’t want to, but he’d talk someone’s ear off about sharks. Somehow, it fit him well. 

Connor read in silence for the rest of the drive, and didn’t bother putting his book down as he trailed after Hank into the office, nose tucked into the pages and hand gripping the end of Hank’s coat. 

As they passed Gavin’s desk, Hank willed him to shut up with a glare. As Gavin smirked, Hank’s glare grew sharper, daring him to speak. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have.

“The hell is this, a daycare?” Gavin grinned, probably impressed with his incredibly witty commentary. “You got a personal assistant? Will he make you coffee?” 

Gavin moved to jostle Connor’s shoulder, and though Hank’s hand shot down to stop him, Gavin reached the kid first. Hank silently hoped that maybe, just maybe, Connor would pick today to zen out and just go with it.

Today was not his lucky day.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from next to him, and when he glanced down, Connor’s knuckles had gone white with the intensity that he was gripping his book. He shifted back, tucking himself away behind Hank’s legs. For a moment, Hank let himself relax. And then Gavin stood up to sneer down at Connor, and the kid was set off like a bomb.

Panic flared in Connor’s eyes as Gavin towered over him, and he threw his book down to fling himself at Gavin’s legs, punching and kicking as high as his tiny body would let him.

“Jesus  _ fuck,  _ Hank, the hell is he doing?” Gavin stepped back, wide-eyed all of a sudden.

Hank spared a brief second to flip Gavin off before he reached down to pry Connor away, holding the kid out at an arm’s length to avoid getting hit in the face himself. Connor, stubborn as always, didn’t give up just because he’d been pried away by force. He kept kicking out, until Hank had carried him into a break room and shut the door behind them.

As soon as Connor’s feet hit the ground, he crumpled like paper. He curled into a ball on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself and starting to sob.

_ “Okay,”  _ Hank grunted as he crouched, hating that he felt too old suddenly. He placed a sturdy hand on Connor’s back, rubbing circles while he tried to come up with something to say. “You’re alright, kid. It’s fine.” 

Connor continued choking out tiny sobs as Hank hauled him up, settling himself against a wall and pulling the kid closer. Tiny hands knotted into his jacket, and he could feel tears soaking the front of his shirt. It would dry, but Hank didn’t have to be happy about it. 

Hank rummaged through his pocket for his phone, trying his best to google ‘sharks’ with one hand. 

He read off all the facts he could find, focusing on the goblin sharks that Connor had been talking about earlier, until he felt the crying taper off. Connor sniffed noisily into his shirt, and Hank mourned at the thought of having to zip up his jacket to cover up snot. 

When the kid sat up, his nose was pink and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked absolutely devastated to find himself still in the DPD offices. 

“I get that you were scared, but you can’t just attack people, Connor.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck as Connor furrowed his eyebrows, glaring at the wall behind Hank. “No—listen up, kiddo. When you get scared of something, just get away from it. Or, if you’re scared of  _ someone,  _ tell me. But you can’t hurt people.”

“Big,” Connor whispered, looking disgruntled. 

“He was trying to make you mad. And that wasn’t okay, but he wouldn’t have really hurt you.” Hank rubbed his forehead, tugging Connor’s backpack off of him and fishing out one of the chapter books from inside. Standing, he held Connor in one hand and the book in the other as he flicked on the lights and settled Connor down in one of the breakroom chairs. 

“Read,” he commanded. “I’ll come and check on you every so often, alright? Stay here today.”

Connor gave Hank a look like he had been abandoned already. 

“I said I’ll be  _ back.”  _ Hank tried. When that didn’t work, he threw his hands up, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. I’ll work in here, okay? But you have to at least let me go and get my things.” 

Although Connor gave him a wary glance, he settled back in his chair to peel the book open to the first page.

Hank slipped out as subtly as he could, zipping up his jacket and flipping Gavin off once more on his way to Fowler’s office.

He knocked, but didn’t pause before entering the room. 

“Hank—,” 

“Nope.” Hank leaned against the door, foot tapping on the ground. “I’m working in the breakroom today, because Gavin decided it would be funny to try and scared a traumatized ten year old, and now he’s on the border of having a panic attack every time he hears someone talking.” 

“Actually,” Fowler gave Hank a look that clearly said  _ sit down.  _ Hank did not sit down. “There’s been a mass homicide downtown, and you’re on the case.” 

“You want me to take a kid on a mass homicide case?”

“I want you to do something with the kid, and then do your job.” Fowler’s eyebrows were only steadily creeping closer and closer together. “Hank, that kid’s barely even your responsibility. Don’t let him get in the way of your job.” 

“The hell am I supposed to do with him?”

Fowler was pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers now. “I’ll give you a number to call. He’s agreed to take kids in from our cases before. Even adopted a couple of them. I  _ meant,”  _ he cut off Hank’s protests before they could begin. “That he could watch the kid for the night while you do your damn job for once. He’s got a few kids around Connor’s age. Maybe it’ll be good for him to get socialized.” 

“He’s not a dog,” Hank muttered, but stuck out his hand for the sticky note that Fowler was writing on anyway. He marched out of the office and slunk to his chair as he dialed the number. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Hank didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Maybe a kid friendly neighborhood and a house with a couple of swings? Whatever he’d imagined, it certainly wasn’t a fucking mansion. 

“Looks cool, huh?” Hank tried, glancing over at where Connor was scowling at the door in his seat. He was hugging his knees to his chest, and was as close to fuming as he could get without a fork to stab someone with. “Kid.” 

Connor jerked his head left and right. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I  _ promise. _ ” When that didn’t work, Hank floundered for some way to convince Connor that he wasn’t getting ditched here for good. His eyes landed on his watch, and he sighed hard as he undid it and held it out towards his grumpy passenger. “Hang onto this until I’m back. It’s pretty fucking important, so you can be sure I’ll be back for it.” 

Connor’s eyes had peeled open, and he was squinting at Hank. His hands reached out to grasp the watch anyway.

“It was from my wife.” Hank explained around the lump in his throat. He pointed to the marker scribbles on the bottom. “My son even wrote me a message on it.” 

His mouth twitched up at the memory, despite the churning feeling in his stomach. It hurt, but not as badly as it had once. Connor’s glare had slackened, and he was running his fingers along the metal and leather. When he looked back up at Hank, his lips were pressed together, but he freed one hand. 

W-H-E-R-E 

Hank swallowed hard. “They’re both gone now. So that’s a damn special watch. Take care of it while I’m on the case, and I’ll be back for you and it in the morning.” 

Connor still refused to say anything, but he yanked his backpack off the floor with less ferocity than before and climbed out of the car. Hank’s wrist felt bare without the watch, but he didn’t mind like he thought he would.

He followed Connor to the front door. He knocked, and fought back a grin when Connor repeated the action boldly. 

He was less bold when the door swung open, scrambling to hide behind Hank’s legs. In the doorway, a smiling old man greeted Hank. Carl Manfred, according to the sticky note he’d been given. 

“Hey,” Hank greeted him lamely. “This is Connor. Connor, say hi.” 

Connor only pressed himself further into Hank’s legs. 

“ _ Connor _ .”

It took a few moments of persistent silence, but Connor eventually peeked out from behind Hank, though his fingers didn’t loosen on his jacket. 

Carl crouched down to Connor’s height, holding a hand out for a high five. Connor stared at the hand in wary confusion until Hank held out his own flat palm and waited for the kid to copy the action. When Hank mimed high fiving himself, Connor moved to press his own hands together, still confused. 

“Nah. You clap  _ his  _ hand, kid.” 

Connor blinked, then shifted to high five Carl. The old man gave him a warm grin.

“I’m Carl. It’s nice to meet you, Connor. My kids are upstairs playing. Would you like to join them?”

Connor sent a mournful glance in Hank’s direction, but Hank only shooed him inside. He pointed to the watch in Connor’s grip. “Eight in the morning tomorrow. I’ll be back to pick you up then. And hey— _ eye contact— _ remember our chat from this morning, and you behave yourself. If you can stick it out that long, maybe we’ll go see some real sharks this weekend.” 

Connor gaped up at him for a moment, before straightening his back to stand up rigidly. With his free hand, he messily saluted in Hank’s direction and held out a flat palm for Carl to high five again. Carl laughed and obliged, standing up to wave goodbye to Hank. 

“We’ll have fun until you’re back,” he promised. “Have a nice night, Hank.” 

Even after the front door had closed, turning and walking back to his car without Connor in tow was a lot harder than Hank expected it to be. Somehow, he missed the kid already. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

When Hank got home that night—or morning, going by the blinking ‘3:00’ on the clock—he found himself unable to sleep right away. He missed the kid already, and it was barely going to be another five hours until he picked him up. He couldn’t imagine the day when he’d drop the kid off for good. 

Having a kid around again was nice. It didn’t feel the way that he had expected it to—not like he was replacing Cole. It didn’t feel like he was trying to undo a past. It just felt like having Connor around. And Connor was a good kid. Scared, hurt, and unable to move on from the past, but—then again, that was Hank, too.

Having Connor around helped to ease some of the old weariness in his heart. It was nice, having someone to take care of. And, really, someone to take care of him in return, the way that Connor always watched him like a hawk.

There was a part of Hank that knew he’d been given an opportunity. He’d given up opportunities before, and had never lingered on his choices too much before, but he knew already that he wouldn’t be able to move on if he made a choice he’d regret this time. Already, even though his house hadn’t changed in the last two nights, something about it felt bigger and emptier with just him. 

The last time Hank lost a son, he didn’t have a choice. And while this boy was far from his son, he was still a little boy who Hank had grown rapidly attached to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to let go twice. 

Connor was a fucking handful, but Hank liked dealing with him. He hadn’t exactly been wrong when he’d spoken with Fowler about Connor’s needs, anyway. The kid needed a stable environment. He needed to be able to live somewhere he could stay long enough to recover, with someone who would be willing to teach him the things that he needed to know.

Hank had the space, didn’t he? He had the time, too.

As he resigned himself to the knowledge that he wouldn’t be falling asleep tonight, Hank rolled over and unplugged his phone from the bedside table. He opened it to his search engine, and settled himself in for a long night. 

 

**Google:**

 

** [ ** How to legally become a foster parent in Michigan  ** ] **

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